


Crack Shot

by Rainbowfootsteps



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Low Self Esteem, Mccrees a sad bab, One Shot, Short One Shot, Watchpoint: Gibraltar, implied mchanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 23:49:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10292702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowfootsteps/pseuds/Rainbowfootsteps
Summary: Jesse feels like he isn't the sharpshooter he used to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sojmilk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sojmilk/gifts).



> Yooo! I'm still writing my big ol' McHanzo fic, don't fret - this is just a mini vacation to try and let myself relax a little and explore emotions instead of having to drive a story forward all the time. I hope you enjoy! :D

A cold eastern wind whipped across the watchpoint, ruffling Jesse's serape. His eyes shined out from below the brim of his hat. Watching. Waiting.

_Bang!_

The bullet pinged off the target and left the metal plate swinging wildly. Jesse closed his eyes and slowly holstered peacekeeper.

_Bang!_

The second bullet flew off into the distance. Damn. He jammed peacekeeper back into its holster and spat on the brown dirt beneath him. That made three shots he'd missed this week. With a grunt, he dropped to the ground, and splayed his legs out in front of him. Not much of a crack shot anymore, huh. His spurs jingled gently. The only other sound was the waves crashing below him. Somewhere in the ocean, three bullets were rusting. Three bullets that hadn't pierced a heart. What in hell would Ana think? Shit, he knew what she'd think.

 _"You were a dead man once you missed the first shot."_ He could hear her voice. Clear as day. Never satisfied, never forgiving.

"Sorry, 'Mari." Jesse muttered. "Ain't the man I used to be." Above him, a gull cawed. He glanced up at it, squinting against the red sunset's glare. Ana wasn't the only sharpshooter he knew anymore. His mind wandered to a familiar, much more recent face. A face framed by jet black hair, with cool brown eyes that could see and snipe a man from a mile away. Muscular arms, seeped in ink and heritage. He glanced at his own arms. One missing in action, the other a fair bit softer and bigger than he'd prefer. He'd never been good at keeping in shape; most of the exercise he got was when he was running for his life.

He stayed there, watching the sunset, until the galaxies were shining above him and the ocean wind was cutting to his bones. What did he bring to his team? A battered hat, a half-smoked cigarillo and a drawling wit - but nothing special. He tried to push the gnawing pain inside, but it clawed at the dark edges of his mind - did he deserve to be in Overwatch at all?


End file.
